


To Be Still

by Arcwin



Series: Ficlets [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ficlet, Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-10 17:06:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20855270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcwin/pseuds/Arcwin
Summary: Ficlet depicting how Crowley finally pops the question to his beloved angel.





	To Be Still

Dust falls softly in the sunlight streaming across the room, like tiny snowflakes on a still winter night. There isn’t a breeze to swirl them into a well-coordinated ballet, so they fall, one after the other, heavy and slow. A blanket of silence fills the room. It’s disconcerting, the silence. No hum of electronics, no sounds of the traffic outside, no ticking of clocks. Pure, unadulterated silence flowing into every corner, seeping into the cracks in the floor and expanding up to the ceiling. It doesn’t even breathe, just holding itself stagnant until it burns like the lungs of a drowning man. 

Crowley is the drowning man, and he hates it. He is an active beehive, every cell buzzing and barely contained within the confines of his being. The throne beneath him, though hard and strong, fades from his consciousness as he fights to keep himself together. His quaking chest threatens to pull him to pieces, the only evidence of his struggle. 

To an outsider, he would appear to be still. Could even be mistaken for calm. 

To Aziraphale, the skin pulled tight over his knuckles and the set of his jaw would make it obvious. Crowley may as well be screaming his anxiety, howling his fear until the walls of his flat trembled as they absorbed his nervous energy, his rage with himself overflowing for succumbing to such... _ feelings _ . It’s obscene. He hates it, hates this earthquake that makes his stomach flip inside out and threatens to send him straight to the floor. 

He stares at a fixed point on his desk, doing everything he can to disconnect from the turmoil in his body. A dissociative trance overtakes him, pulling him further and further away from the reality of the small ring box in his jacket pocket. Crowley has known it for centuries, though he refused to believe it could ever work. And then they stopped the world from ending, and he invited Aziraphale to stay with him, and while he was preparing his  _ Yeah, sure, I understand, that’s fine _ speech, his world stopped.

Aziraphale said  _ Why, yes, Crowley. That sounds...lovely. _

He smiled, a beatific and heart-aching smile that crinkled the skin around his eyes and threatened to stop Crowley’s heart then and there. He wouldn't have cared in the slightest, knowing that at this moment his life was nearly complete. 

Nearly. 

One last thing to do.

That evening, while his oldest and dearest love got cleaned up and ready for bed, Crowley slunk silently over to the safe and withdrew the ring. It was a simple, golden band etched with a winding snake with a tiny diamond for the eye. He took a long look at it, made up his mind, and shoved it into his pocket while he waited.

Right as he’s about to yell, the vibrating inside threatening to overcome and shatter him to pieces, the bathroom door opens. Billows of steam roll out into the hallway as his angel, his sweetheart, his  _ best friend _ emerges with pinked cheeks and damp hair. Beads of sweat cling to Aziraphale’s forehead. He blinks rapidly, clearing his vision, and takes a few steps towards the living room. Crowley watches him with wide eyes, pupils narrowed to tiny slits, unblinking.

The angel halts mid step before crossing the threshold into the living room, the contented smile fading from his face. He cocks his head to the side, watching Crowley curiously. “My dear,” he starts, and Crowley flinches. Raising a hand towards him, but staying rooted to his spot in the hallway, he frowns. “You’re terrified.” It isn’t a judgment, nor a question. Glancing around him for threats and finding none, he looks back at the demon. 

_ This might be it _ , Crowley thinks.  _ This might be when I die, killed by my own stupidity.  _

When he doesn’t answer, fearful that the moment he opens his mouth he’ll release the beast behind his pounding heart, Aziraphale softens and takes a tentative step into the room. 

_ No, you  _ ** _fool_ ** _ , don’t do it, _ Crowley wants to scream.  _ Don’t fall for this. Don't fall for  _ ** _me_ ** _ . _

The silence fills the room once more, but Crowley doesn’t even hear it. His own blood is thumping too loudly in his ears as Aziraphale pads with bare feet slowly, so  _ slowly _ over to his chair. 

_ You don’t want this, angel! _

_ Leave now before I break you into pieces. _

_ I’m not safe, I’ve never been safe. I’m not kind, I’m not nice, I’m not anything that’s good.  _

_ I’m not-- _

“You are everything to me,” Aziraphale says as he lays a gentle hand on Crowley’s cheek. The moment his palm makes contact with the demon’s skin, a wave of calm flows through his body. The vibrations, the buzzing that threatened to shatter him stops immediately. He breathes for the first time in an hour, filling his lungs with fresh oxygen as he melts into his angel’s touch. 

He knows what it’s like to be still. 

He’s never known before now. It settles comfortably in his core like a thick down comforter on a chilly winter afternoon, wrapping around him as if it’s always been there. Perhaps it always has, but he’s been too blind to notice. 

The silence in the room shifts, filled with something else entirely as Crowley stares up at Aziraphale.

He clears his throat. His own voice sounds foreign to him. “Aziraphale,” he starts, nearly dying on the spot as the angel’s eyes soften even more and his thumb strokes Crowley’s cheekbone. “Aziraphale,” he repeats, no longer afraid of the words but not sure what order to put them in.

“Yes, my dear?”

Crowley turns his face into Aziraphale’s palm, kissing it softly. “Marry me,” he says quietly. At his side, his hand fumbles to find the opening of his pocket, fingers questing for the ring box. He’s finally able to produce it, flicking the top open with his thumb before he presents it. 

Aziraphale gasps, his hand coming up to cover his mouth while his eyes immediately fill with tears. “Oh, my, Crowley, it’s--well, yes, of course, I do!” he says ecstatically, throwing his arms around the demon’s neck. 

Smashed into Aziraphale’s chest, Crowley sighs, inhaling the sweet and musky scents of his soap and shampoo mixing with the angel’s natural smells. Inside him, the nervous, reckless energy that’s always taken up the space between his ribs ebbs away, replaced. 

He is still.


End file.
